Taking Poetry Public

And then there are days 

when hope seems low, 

The heart so heavy, 

the world, a foe.

I struggle to belong, 

I speak another tongue. 

Gone mad is the crowd— 

I'm lonely though among.

On a day such as this, 

On a walk in the morn, 

The sun not yet out, 

The night not yet gone.

My feet walk slow, 

My shoulders feel weight. 

Why is it as such? 

Why do men choose hate?

Then I hear a bird sing 

and I feel the wind blow, 

Moving me to chin up, 

Say "nay" to the woe.

The bird toils hard, 

Yet sings a song of hope. 

Don't give up on love, 

Hold tight to the rope.

The night WILL fade away. 

The morn WILL shine bright. 

Don't despair in the dark— 

Make way for the light.

My step is now light 

and the weight, it's all gone. 

With this power of Grace 

I now dance and move on.

by Humaira Chaudhary  

This old car is

a stalwart enigma.

The parts are elusive. 

It’s hard to let go--dismiss,

like a best friend

or favorite blankie.

Poised on the showroom floor,

gleaming, glowing

beckoning, to buy

regardless of cost or budget.

“This car is you.”

The salesman touted and taunted

with manipulative trickery.

I bought it, brought it home

and twenty-five years later,

the mechanics sees her more

and I am jealous. 

by Dorothy Sells Clover